Elle Est Belle
by wittyblather
Summary: He was a monster. They called him a demon in the house of God. But what demon could love like he could?


_Elle est belle_

The streets below the two monumental towers of the Notre Dame cathedral were abuzz with excitement that evening. To a stranger just wandering in to the fair city of Paris, the activities of the people on the dirt roads were normal. Mothers were hustling their children into their houses to avoid the shadows of twilight, and the suspicious activities that thrived in them. Beggars, hands knotted and faces weathered from decades of exposure to the elements, were begging for coins from passersby, though few Parisians cared about their well being. Young men with less than holy things on their minds were turning their attention towards the various taverns and brothels in the alleys away from the church. However, while all these activities were routine, an energy pulsated in the street around the colossal cathedral. Just off to the side of the great steps that lead to the wooden doors, a young girl was dancing with a talent to rival the nymphs of legend. Her raven black hair was flying in every direction, catching the setting sun to give her a sort of halo. The gypsy skirt she wore was a bright scarlet, patched and accented with oranges and yellows that seemed to change color as they moved from darkness to light. This gave the twirling girl the appearance of a flame, perhaps one that burned on a candle. Needless to say, she was attracting much attention, and already had a sizable crowd surrounding her. No one wanted to miss La Esméralda's performance, after all.

_Elle est tres, tres belle_

Not all the spectators watched from the ground, however. High up in the bell tower, seated next to a gargoyle, a grotesque figure observed the events of the street. Most people, if they looked up at the right angle, could see him, but no one dared ask who the strange shadow was, mainly because it would be a pointless question. The distant spectator was Quasimodo, the ringer of the bells, the hunchback, the church's demon. The man, if he could be called that, was feared and mocked among the people of Paris. Tales of his prodigious ugliness were not uncommon stories to hear amongst chattering young children.

"I've heard that if pregnant women look upon him, they will lose their baby."

"They say he came from Hades. Only the holy men can handle him without fear."

"Imagine, a demon in a house of God!"

Despite their cruel words towards him, most people left Quasimodo alone, even on the rare occasions he came down from the bell tower. Today was no different, and after catching a glimpse of him at the top of Notre Dame, the crowd turned their gaze back to the dancing gypsy.

_Je l'aime_

The view from the top of the cathedral was not nearly as good as the crowd's, of course, especially for a person who is all but blind in one eye. All that Quasimodo could make out from his roost was the bright, flame like colors of Esmeralda's skirt and the vague shape of the people below. It was enough to satisfy him, though. The unfortunate creature had experienced so little beauty in his life that even this glimpse from afar sated him, much like a starved person needs less food than a glutton to be content. Sadly, the song that drifted from the girl's lips was lost to him, for the bells had taken his hearing long ago. He could only watch from his lofty home, and perhaps take comfort in the fact that somewhere in the world, there was perfection.

_Mais, elle ne m'aime pas_

This was not the first time he'd watched the lovely Esmeralda, oh no. Quasimodo had been a faithful observer since the first time she'd stepped onto the street to share her beauty with the world. The first time he'd laid eyes on her, an unfamiliar feeling had flooded the hunchbacked man. It felt as though his blood had been replaced with molten lava, and he wanted nothing more than to go down to where she was, and perhaps touch but a lock of her hair. Eventually that feeling had grown into an equally foreign, but much less frightening, emotion, one that he had not felt for anyone but his master, Frollo the Archdeacon. Yet this was not that same, doglike devotion. Quasimodo felt as though he could slay an army, swim across an ocean, even retrieve the moon from the sky for this girl, Esmeralda. He very much liked the way his heart leapt into his throat when he saw her dancing, and wondered if these sensations were part of that emotion Frollo mentioned every so often: love.

_C'est triste, c'est vraiment_

With that mythical experience of love, however, came crushing heartbreak. Every night, after the moon was high in the sky and Esmeralda was fatigued from her performance, a man in shining armor ride up on a white horse and whisked her off her feet. Even from the bell tower, Quasimodo could tell that her quick movements and joyful expression did not stem from her earnings and tips from the day, but from the sight of that knight, the one she'd given her heart to long ago. Little did Esmeralda know that each time she kissed her handsome archer and leapt onto his mount with a wide smile, she drove a stake through the hunchback's own heart. Perhaps if Quasimodo was capable of crying, he'd weep from sorrow at being tossed aside. But how could this child of misery, the demon, cry, when his entire life had been nothing but pain? To cry, one must know the happiness they are lacking.

_Je suis si seule_

As the full moon hung in the sky, bathing the rooftops in argent light, the scorned creature sat with his favorite bell, humming a tuneless melody into the night air. The song was by no means beautiful, or even remotely euphonic, but each note contained the suffering and torment Quasimodo had endured during his lifetime and carried on his oversized shoulders. Perhaps somewhere, while holding onto her love in their shared bed, Esmeralda heard the hunchback's sorrowful hymn, and perhaps shed a tear herself. After all, a whisper of Quasimodo's misery was more sadness than the gypsy had known in her entire life.


End file.
